


on your own is no good way to live

by bizzybee



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Crimson Flower Route, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Time Skip, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, kind of, neither of them are neurotypical AND neither of them are straight!, oh bernegard we're really in it now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:01:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23505016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bizzybee/pseuds/bizzybee
Summary: Bernadetta enjoys the greenhouse at night. What she doesn't enjoy; however, is when people interrupt her.Both the exception and proof to this rule is Edelgard.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg/Bernadetta von Varley
Comments: 7
Kudos: 122





	on your own is no good way to live

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my google docs since December because it made me too emotional to continue. Enjoy!
> 
> **cw for anxiety attacks and references to past child abuse**
> 
> Title is from "A Love of Some Kind" by Adrienne Lenker.

In the night, the flowers and plants in the Garreg Mach greenhouse seem to glow in the moonlight, washing over Bernadetta as she breathes in the calming scented air.

She’s taken to caring for the flowers in the greenhouse ever since the start of the war, finding that the regular care and thankless attention the plants require soothe her from the memories of battles she’s fought, people she’s killed, former friends she’s made suffer, all these memories that have replaced the intrusive remembrances of her father that often plagued her back when she had attended the academy. She can't seem to avoid these memories; either in the day, or at night, in her dreams. As they grow more constant and overwhelming she has found herself spending more and more time in the greenhouse, pulling weeds, laying fertilizer, harvesting crops and flowers alike. 

There's something especially comforting about the greenhouse at night, she’s realized, and when she can't sleep because of her terror that in her dreams she'll relive Felix's, or Sylvain's, or, oh, Goddess, Leonie's, deaths keep her awake, she’ll retreat to the greenhouse. Sometimes she’ll come with a sketchbook, sometimes with a notebook, sometimes with nothing but the intent to care for the few nocturnal plants in the garden. No matter the circumstances, she waits out the night until her head finally droops down and she falls into a restless sleep on the greenhouse floor. 

On this particular night, Bernadetta’s reclining against one of the solid stone benches that line the garden boxes, sketching. She’s in no way a professional, or even a skilled artist, nowhere near as good as Ignatz was, she thinks with a pang, but she makes out well enough with her shaky hand, biting her lip and attempting to shade Petra's long, dark hair. She’s working on a series of portraits for the entire Black Eagle Strike Force, and Petra’s one of the last ones.

She knows she’ll never give her friends these creations. Goddess, even thinking about that possibility makes her hands shake more. She sits, studying her attempt at Petra's angular features. There’s just so many flaws -- her nose too narrow, her chin too sharp, her hairline too far forward. But, regardless, it’s therapeutic to have these for her own pleasure. 

Right as Bernadetta’s adding the triangular tattoo on Petra’s cheek, the greenhouse door opens and closes with a soft thunk. 

Bernadetta lets out a soft shriek and, going off instinct long driven into the deep recesses of her mind, blows out her candle, shoves her sketchbook behind her, and curls into a ball, trying to make herself as small as possible so as not to be seen. Her mind races, the alarm bells ringing in a pattern that sounds eerily like  _ Father, Father, Father, Father. _

_ But no,  _ a small voice that still has a semblance of control tries to call,  _ It can't be Father, Father's on house arrest. But if not Father, then who? _

Before Bernadetta can process a possible response to this question, a voice very much unlike her father's answers it for her. 

"Bernadetta."

Bernadetta knows that voice. She’d recognize it anywhere -- anyone in Fodlan would. This strikes a different, though more subtle type of fear in her heart, and something more, a deep sense of shame that hits her in the most guarded part of her heart. She hates that she had reacted to something as small as a door opening in such an adverse way. 

"I can see you," the voice says, a hint of exasperation in it now. Bernadetta’s used to that tone, she recognizes it well and hates herself for finding comfort in the familiarity of its negativity.

Soft footsteps. The swish of nightclothes brushing against each other. A sigh. Then, silence. 

Bernadetta risks a look up from the safety of her lap. 

And there’s Lady Edelgard, sheathed in a silvery glow of moonlight, looking every bit the Emperor and fearless leader she is, even though she’s dressed in a simple sheath and bloomers with a night robe wrapped around her. 

"Lady Edelgard?," Bernadetta shrieks. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to- I wasn't doing anything, I promise! It's nothing! Nothing is going on and I'm fine. Go back to bed!"

"Oh, Bernadetta," Edelgard sighs. She looks as though she means to take a step forward before reconsidering, as if Bernadetta is a frightened deer she’s trying not to spook.

A fair comparison, Bernie has to admit, as she was feeling rather skittish at the moment (as she is at most moments).

"What? I'm telling the truth! Just leave me alone-"

"Bernadetta," and after repeating her name for a fifth time, Edelgard asks, "Are you all right? I did not mean to interrupt your gardening time." She sweeps her arm in a general circle, eyes following her hand.

Bernadetta can feel her breathing starting to slow, though she feels nowhere near ready to come out of the cocoon she’s formed for herself on the cracked, dirty floor. She does feel okay looking up at Edelgard, though, so she does, though tries to avoid eye contact as much as possible. 

"I'm fine," she says, voice still at a high pitch. 

"You’re clearly not."

Bernadetta whimpers.

"Bernadetta, if you were truly all right, I believe that you would be asleep, or, at the least, not curled on the floor of the greenhouse, still in your day clothes. Even Hubert has retired to bed. Now, I'll ask you again. Not as a commander, as a friend. Are you all right?"

Bernadetta squeaks at the word 'friend.' Were she and Edelgard friends? Really, truly? She’s never thought she could call Edelgard a  _ friend _ \- she’s just so intimidating, and strong, and beautiful, and powerful and beautiful and amazing, and  _ beautiful _ , and- 

"Friend?" Bernadetta can feel her breathing start to quicken again, and she hiccuped in her attempt to hold the tears in her eyes back. "Friend?! How could you- Why would you- Edelgard, you can't- You're not- I'm not enough to be your friend-," and, succombing to the constant voice that whispers in her head, urging her to flee in one ear and hissing insults in the other like a snake whenever she dares to let an ounce of hope in- "I'm stupid, I'm worthless, I'm- You're- I'm unmarriageable! I can't do anything, I can't do this, how could you, I was-  _ augh _ !" she pushes herself to her feet as her vision goes red and her mind retreats back to the small, black, confining box it goes to for reasons Bernadetta has no time nor motivation to figure out.

Bernadetta pushes past Edelgard, ignoring her  _ "Why, Bernadetta!" _ as she passes, rushing towards the greenhouse doors as she continues to mutter insults under her breath.

_ Dumb Bernie _ , she stumbles once.

_ Horrible Bernie _ , she stumbles twice.

_ Bad-Friend Bernie, _ she crashes into something solid, short, and human just as she starts to feel the cool night air seeping in through the greenhouse doors. 

It’s Edelgard. In her haze, Bernadetta senses her standing resolutely, one hand on her hip and the other reaching out, not quite touching Bernadetta's shoulder.

Bernadetta tries to push past her, but Edelgard doesn’t even budge an inch. Instead, Bernadetta chooses the next best thing and wraps her arms around herself, vision growing dark around the edges as her breath continues to quicken and her heart continues to race. 

"Bernadetta, please," Edelgard says, voice steady and strong, piercing through the fog. "Breathe before you pass out." She tentatively lays a hand on Bernadetta's shoulder, and Bernadetta flinches at the touch, even as she feels a certain warmth emanating from the place where Edelgard's thumb makes contact with her collarbone. 

Bernadetta tries to look at Edelgard, but her eyes can't seem to focus. She truly hates when she gets like this, but she hates even more that Edelgard is here to witness it. Edelgard, to her credit, looks right back at her, eyes guarded but warm. 

Slowly, slowly, Bernadetta's breath slows.Her hyperventilation is replaced by slow, unsteady breaths; her pounding heart replaced by quaking hands; her black-rimmed red vision replaced by what is actually in front of her: Edelgard, the greenhouse doors, and, behind them, the monastery grounds. She can hear more than that insistent and cruel taunting in her head, now - she and Edelgard's breathing, crickets chirping, the gurgling of the small greenhouse fountain behind her.

Edelgard says nothing, but Bernadetta can sense the silent question in her softly imploring eyes.

She takes a deep breath, lungs struggling. "I- I'm okay. I'm okay." She sighs heavily, feeling suddenly exhausted. 

"Good." Edelgard grazes her thumb across Bernadetta's collar before pulling back to cross her arms in front of her chest. "We need to speak about what just happened."

"Oh, I mean, that's okay. Do we really have to?” Bernadetta squeaks, voice getting higher and higher. “I'm feeling quite exhausted now and so I think I'll be heading to bed and so, really, I'll just see you in the morning-" She cuts herself off as Edelgard brushes her fingertips against her arm.

"We must talk," Edelgard insists, though not unkindly. "Please, Bernadetta, I just want to understand what happened. Speak to me?" 

Bernadetta hesitates, fists clenching. She nods. Edelgard pushes lightly on Bernadetta's arm, and she backs up, semi-collapsing on the greenhouse bench behind her. Edelgard, refined as ever, sits down carefully next to her, eyes never leaving Bernadetta as if she fears she will run off at the first opportunity. 

Bernadetta feels much too exhausted to run off, though. After these, these  _ episodes _ , she supposes she could call them, all the strength inside her is leached away, taken by the effort it requires to keep her shields up. She desperately wants to lean her head on Edelgard's shoulder. She desperately wants to do many things to receive comfort. But, she doesn’t ask, doesn’t offer. She knows better; knows that Edelgard isn’t one for physical contact - a hug from her is as rare an occurrence as, say, Caspar speaking at a normal volume. Linhardt being awake. Even Edelgard placing her hands on her shoulders was a new experience for Bernadetta.

"What happened?" Edelgard asks again, brow furrowed. "I’ve never seen you quite like that before." 

"Um..." Bernadetta bites her bottom lip. "Um." she searches for the words that will sufficiently convey enough of the truth that Edelgard will stop worrying about her, while not saying so much that it increases that same worry. 

"It's all right," Edelgard says. "You don't have to answer. Can you tell me if this happens often?"

Bernadetta looks down at her hands, face heating up. She supposes that is answer enough.

"Oh, Bernadetta," Bernadetta sees Edelgard shifting on the bench out of the corner of her eye. "Wait, every time you run away from a conversation, is this what you're escaping to do?"

Bernie lifts her gaze from her lap, resolutely refusing to look at Edelgard. Instead, she focuses her gaze on one of her favorite nocturnal plants on the other side of the greenhouse, this one a glowing, unearthly purple with soft curving petals. She watches it so hard, she worries she might break.

"I..." Edelgard starts. "Why didn't you tell anyone? Bernadetta, we could have helped you. We all care about you, you know."

Bernadetta can feel tears welling up in her eyes. "You don't have to lie to me."

"Lie to you? In what way am I lying?"

"I don't- people aren't my friends. I don't even know how I made it to the Strike Force, everyone is just tolerating my presence walking around going, 'Oh there goes Bernadetta the weakest of us all!,' and-"

"Oh, Bernadetta, you have to know that's not true." Bernadetta glances at Edelgard as she shakes her head. "Nobody thinks that. In fact, when Hubert and I were putting together the list of names for the Strike Force, your name was one of the first ones on it. You say you're weak, but that's not what I and the others see at all."

"Please, stop," Bernadetta says softly. "I don't deserve these things you're saying to me, I don't deserve it at all-," she ends in a shriek, and finally takes her hands out of her lap, only to clasp them over her face.

"And, Bernadetta," Edelgard goes on, heedless to the other girl's protests. "We all consider you a friend. You are a positive influence on the Force's lives. Your eccentricity, your guileless view of the world, all keep the group grounded,  _ especially _ me.

"I told you before that I was more prone to anger before I met you, and it's true. With you, I've grown in empathy for others and empathy for myself. You are a good person, Bernadetta, and I hope one day you're able to open up to me, not as a general to your emperor, but as a friend to a friend."

Bernadetta feels a single tear slipping down her cheek. She peeks at Edelgard between her fingers, looking for any malice in her eyes that could have been hidden in her words. Try as she might, she could find none. 

She takes a breath. Maybe. . .  _ But no, _ that small voice says to her,  _ She's lying. You're alone. You're worthless. You're a bad daughter. A bad friend. She's trying to get you to trust her so she can laugh behind your back with Dorothea later- _

_ But Dorothea wouldn't do that _ , Bernadetta reasons with herself.  _ Dorothea is kind. _

And if her mind is wrong about that, maybe...

She decides to try just one tiny thing, one fact, a statement Edelgard probably has already guessed, just to see what would happen. 

"Yes," she swallows. "Usually when, when I leave- or run away, I do have an... episode. But it's okay! I'm okay. You really don't have to worry about me, Edelgard. I can totally manage it. I am managing it!" She takes her hands off her face to prove her point, folding them in her lap and resisting the urge to wring them.

"Except you're clearly not," Edelgard points out. "Bernadetta, it's okay to tell me. I will not think differently of you. I know you have had a hard life, even more than most, and that that life still has... effects on how you see the world. You don't have to say anything you don't want to, but if you don't trust me, I urge you to find someone you can trust so you can let this out."

A sudden rush of confusion and fear strikes Bernadetta’s heart. Edelgard thinks she doesn't trust her? Edelgard is even better than most, Edelgard is so powerful and awe-inspiring and Bernadetta would trust her with her life, would trust her with her heart, voice be damned. Her admiration for the Emperor, no, for Edelgard herself, is so deep that she can't even find the bottom. In fact, sometimes she’s even wondered-

She stops that train of thought. She knows if she ever lets herself think about that too much, it could break her entirely. Besides, there’s no way Edelgard, calm, always in control, the future leader of the entire continent and current leader of the Adrestian Empire Edelgard, could ever, would ever see her as more than what she was - a small, insignificant blip on the timeline of the war whose name would never be mentioned in history books.

"I trust you," Bernadetta says quietly, turning her gaze back to that purple flower. "I just- it's just- you needn't bother worrying about me. You're very busy and important and I'm just me. I'm just Bernie."

_ Worthless Bernie. Stupid Bernie. Childish Bernie. Immature, overbearing, unlovable Bernie. _

"You're never 'just Bernie,'" Edelgard says, and shakes her head. "You're Bernie. And that's enough."

A silence falls over the two of them as Bernadetta stares at the purple flower, not really seeing it as Edelgard's claim echoes in her brain. She has never been enough. Can never be enough. Not in the truest sense of the word, not ever.

"Would it help if I shared something about me?" Edelgard asks, then, without waiting for an answer, crosses her legs at the ankle and continues. "Often, right before a battle, I get struck with a sudden, certain, fear that I've made an unforgivable mistake. As my eyes cross over each member of the Strike Force, I wonder if everybody will make it back alive. I often want to cry."

Bernadetta does not know how this is supposed to make her feel better.

"And then I look over at you, Bernadetta, and I realize that, if you, who are so often trapped by this paralyzing fear, can go into battle and do what you have to do, then so can I. You help me with my fear, Bernadetta, and there's no one I would rather have as a friend.

"I know that my experiences are much different than yours, and I never can truly understand what you've been through and the fears that plague you. I'll always be on the outside looking in, but, Bernadetta, I do hope I can at least take a peek inside your heart to help you."

Bernadetta blinks. She squeezes her hands into fists, shuts her eyes so hard she sees spots. She chooses to open up. Just a little bit. 

"When people tell me nice things, when they pretend that they like me, and I start to feel a little okay again, I lose control of myself," she admits. "There's a little voice, whispering to me every waking moment, horrible things. Things that- things that my father said to me. When people tell me I'm a good person, that they like me, that whisper becomes a shout. It takes over. And all I can hear is my father. All I can feel is the chair he'd tie me to, sometimes for days on end. All I can see is the walls of my bedroom as I hide from what's outside of it. I'm just back. 

"And so I do what I always wanted to do, back then. I run. I get away from those feelings, from those… memories. From those emotions. And then I push it all away until I collapse." She doesn't even notice the silent tears running down her ruddy cheeks until they start to drip onto her hands, still clenched in her lap. She sniffs. 

"My friend," Edelgard's voice is soft and serious. "Why haven't you told anyone? Manuela, at the very least, could provide you with calming herbs. I know every member of the Strike Force is here for you. We worry about you, me especially."

"I just," Bernie starts, her voice cracking. She knows she’s saying too much, there’s no going back, Edelgard is going to resent her forever for being her usual useless self, but she can't stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth, punctuated by sobs. "I just, don't want, to be a burden, any more, than I already am." She can feel the hysteria rising up in her again and fights to push it down

"Bernadetta. Look at me."

Bernie takes a deep breath and tears her eyes away from her flower, turning to face Edelgard. Her eyes aren't full of pity or resentment, as Bernadetta had feared, but simply overwhelmed with worry. 

"It's going to be okay. You are not a burden. Do you hear me?," she says each word slowly and with emphasis. "You are not a burden."

And, remarkably Bernadetta's breathing slows. The hysteria falls again. Instead, she feels weirdly dizzy and somehow incomplete after the anticipation of an episode being left unmet. 

Before Bernadetta knows what’s happening, Edelgard is reaching over, taking one of her clenched fists in her own. She pulls it over to her own lap, and gently presses down on each finger with both of her hands. The sensation feels so comforting, so  _ nice _ , that Bernadetta lets out a small, content sigh, trying to credit her racing heart to her anxiety.

Gradually, she lets her muscles unclench, first in the hand Edelgard’s caressing, then, slowly, the rest of her body. When Edelgard seems to sense that the fear of an attack has passed, she removes her hands, leaving Bernadetta's hand lying prone and palm up on her thigh. 

Bernadetta almost unconsciously turns her hand palm down, running her thumb over Edelgard's leg, with just the thin layer of her bloomers stopping her thumb from making contact with bare skin. 

Edelgard tenses, and Bernadetta immediately jerks her hand back. "Sorry!," she squeals. "I'm sorry!" She wrings her hands, digging her opposite thumb into the place where the curve of Edelgard's leg fit so perfectly, trying to forget how right it had felt, trying to ease the tingling she’s still feeling.

"It's quite alright," Edelgard says, straightening her shoulders. "I'm simply... not used to physical contact so much as most."

"And that's okay! I'm sorry! I shouldn't have!" 

"It's all right, friend," Edelgard says, in a way Bernadetta knows does not open room for discussion.

And so, they fall into another silence. Bernadetta tries to ignore the rolling pits in her stomach and the heat she just knows is flooding her cheeks. Edelgard sits beside her, every so often pressing her own hand into the same place Bernadetta touched just moments before.

_ To erase your touch _ , the voice says.  _ So she can forget this ever happened. Because she hates you. _

Bernadetta swallows, looking up at the ceiling as shame fills her mind.  _ Dumb Bernie. Stupid Bernie _ . She really needs to stop.

Seemingly oblivious to the storm running through Bernadetta's mind, Edelgard turns to her. "What do you do here at night, anyway?"

Bernadetta reckons that this is a valid question. While it’s common knowledge among their group that Edelgard often takes walks at night, she herself is so quiet and moves in such a slight manner that only the regular night watch knows about her visits to the greenhouse, and, to be honest, she’s not sure that even they know. 

"Well," she hesitates. "I really like to come and look at the plants, especially the carnivorous ones. Plants are my favorite, and the greenhouse has such a nice variety, it even has nocturnal flowers, and so on nights when I'm- when I can't sleep, I like to come here and care for them. They're so much easier to talk to than people," she blurts in a single breath, flushing and smiling at her hands in her lap.

"Yes, I believe you've told me that before," Edelgard nods. She sweeps her gaze around the greenhouse, her mouth quirking up in a half-smile. "Carnivorous plants, you say? I believe I can see why that is. You're similar to them, in that you look innocent and unassuming and yet will kill with viciousness if provoked."

Bernadetta giggles. "Carnivorous plants don't kill with viciousness," she says. "Most of them just sit and wait for their food to land on them. They trick them. That's why I like them so much."

Bernadetta rises to her feet, moving across the walkway and stepping deeper into the greenhouse. "Like here, there's pitcher plants. I can, um, show you if you want." Without waiting for an answer, she goes to the front corner of the greenhouse, yanking open the supplies cabinet with a jerk. She leans down, pulling a box of crickets and a pair of tweezers off the bottom shelf and crossing back to where Edelgard stands by the plants, eyeing them warily. 

"They, um, eat insects, especially ones that forage. These ones like crickets a lot."

Bernadetta props open the lid, feeling a bit more at ease now. Technically, the plants didn't need to be fed, as they often are able to provide for themselves, but there’s something reassuring and awe-inspiring to watch as the petals on the pitcher plants slowly lower and collapse, catching their prey within their petals. She murmurs soft things as she moves from plant to plant, placing a single cricket on each bloom.

"Would you like to try?" Bernadetta turns to Edelgard, holding out the tweezers, then pauses. Edelgard's face is a shade of sickly green as she stares at the container of live crickets below them, hopping around amongst their feed. She doesn’t answer. 

"Edelgard?"

Edelgard startles. "Hm? Sorry?"

"Would you like to try to feed the plants? It's quite a bit of fun, actually."

"Oh. Well, that's all right. I'm, ah, not so fond of bugs as you are."

Bernadetta recalls a vague memory of learning this, many years ago, when they'd all attended the academy together. If she’s remembering correctly, any creepy-crawlies that make their homes in the shadows terrify Edelgard. 

"Oh, Edelgard, I'm sorry I forgot." She snaps the lid back on the container. "It's all right, I can feed them later, I'm sorry to have- I'm sorry to have made you feel uneasy."

Edelgard's hand closes over Bernadetta's on the cricket container. "It's all right, Bernie, I don't mind  _ you  _ feeding them. In fact, it's quite endearing how you talk to the plants, as if they're your pets."

Bernadetta flushes, pulling her hand back. "You don't have to make fun of me, you know," she snaps. "I just like the plants and it's not- it's not something strange!" She huffs and turns away.

_ Dumb Bernie _ .  _ Stupid Bernie. Strange Bernie. Will-Never-Be-Loved Bernie. Not-In-the-Way-You-Want Bernie. _

"Bernadetta," Edelgard sighs. "My, you always come to the worst conclusions, do you know that? I wasn't making fun of you, nor was I calling you strange. It's cute."

Bernie clamps one hands over her face, as though to stop her blush.

"No, it's not!," she protests. "Don't even say that."

"Please, my friend. Continue to feed the plants. It's comforting for me."

Silence. 

"Bernadetta, please, you must at least open your eyes."

Bernadetta squints at Edelgard through her eyelids, and slowly removes her hands from her face. 

"I would like to see you continue." Edelgard repeats, and Bernadetta could have sworn a tinge of pink is resting on Edelgard’s cheeks.

So she does, prying back open the lid and extracting another cricket. Still embarrassed, she clamps her jaw shut to prevent herself from speaking to the plants. She’s pretty sure Edelgard notices, but, thankfully, she spares Bernadetta of her comments.

After a moment, Edelgard turns from Bernadetta, hands behind her back as she steps away to observe the blooming nocturnal flowers on display around the greenhouse. 

Bernadetta hums to herself as she works, lost in the gentleness of plants. 

"What's this?," Edelgard calls from the other side of the greenhouse, pulling Bernadetta out of her work.

She freezes. The sketchbook. In her haste to escape from the confines of the greenhouse, Bernadetta forgot all about tonight's project. 

She turns, tense, to see Edelgard holding the book in her hands, gazing down at the sketch of Petra on the open page. 

"Nothing!" Bernadetta squeals. "It's nothing, and you should just not look at it, and, wow, how did that even get there?” she laughs nervously. “I've never seen that before in my life. Whose could it be? Definitely not mine!" Her voice cracks. She winces. 

Edelgard’s smiling, a playful look in her eyes that Bernadetta doesn’t think she’s seen in years. "Bernadetta," she says, voice sing-song. "Did you draw this?"

"No-"

"It's really, very nice. You captured her eyes so well-"

"Stop it-"

"-And wow, look at how nice the shading is on this bit-"

"-It's not mine. I don't know who's it is-"

"-Wait a minute-"

"-Anyway! If you just give it to me I can, um, find the owner in the morning, because I think I'm going to go to bed now-"

"-Bernadetta, do you care for Petra?"

This pulls Bernadetta up short. She thinks she understands what Edelgard is asking. She just doesn't know how to reply. Petra? Is that what Edelgard thinks? When Petra and Dorothea have clearly been wrapped up in an informal courtship ritual with each other for the past however many years? 

"For Petra?" Bernadetta repeats.

Edelgard raises an eyebrow.

"I don't- that's not- I mean, as a friend obviously but, like, I made one of those for everyone and it's not Petra I'm-" she stops herself from spilling just about every secret her heart contains, face flushing again at the peculiar look Edelgard gives her. 

Bernadetta stomps over, pulling the sketchbook from Edelgard's grasp and turning her back on her. 

"So..." Edelgard trails, voice still playful. "You made one of these for everyone?"

Silence.

"Can I see mine?"

_ Absolutely not _ , Bernadetta thinks to herself.

"I  _ did _ ask for your advice on the portrait I made for the Professor. . ."

Silence. 

A sigh. "I promise I'll stop teasing you over this."

_ Stupid Bernie. Untalented Bernie. _

"You just have such skill and talent, Bernadetta. I admire that."

Skill? Talent? 

Bernadetta lets her shoulders drop. She turns back to Edelgard. "Fine. But you can't tease me."

"I promise."

Bernadetta flips towards the front of the book, hoping Edelgard wouldn't put two and two together and realize that hers was the first Bernie had completed. Without speaking, she shoves the sketchbook towards Edelgard’s chest, shoulders tensing again with the inevitable outcome - that Edelgard will laugh, rip the page out, take it, and show it to the entire army so they can all make fun of her together.

Quiet settles over the dim greenhouse. Bernadetta resists the urge to squirm as she watches Edelgard as she studies her portrait. She knows it isn't her best - and she knows Edelgard will realize that. 

"Why, Bernie," Edelgard breathes. "This is beautiful."

Beautiful?

"The way you captured my essence," Edelgard continues, "It’s absolutely breathtaking, my friend." 

_ She's lying _ .  _ Stupid Bernie. Untalen- _

But, for once, with Edelgard smiling so gently at her, so differently from her usual guarded expression, Bernadetta pushes those thoughts back and down, into a space so small she can't hear them anymore. 

"Can I look at the rest of them?" Edelgard asks.

Bernadetta can do nothing but nod, not trusting herself to speak. Edelgard takes a seat on the same bench Bernadetta had been leaning against earlier that night. Bernadetta tentatively sits next to her, watching her sketches pass by as Edelgard slowly flips through the pages. They’re rough, uncolored, with thick and uncouth lines, but Edelgard seems to observe them almost reverently. And soon, Bernadetta’s studying Edelgard.

Edelgard sits, bathed in moonlight, pale skin appearing like porcelain, lavender eyes shining. Bernadetta looks at her smooth skin, the few freckles dotting her cheeks and nose, the way her eyelashes glimmer dark blue in dim light of the night. Her hair’s let down, with rifts and kinks in it from a long day wrapped in its crown. She looks radiant, otherworldly, and yet so deeply human that Bernadetta considers the idea that she’s seeing an Edelgard that very few have ever seen - that maybe she was one of the few, among such as Hubert and Byleth, that have seen Edelgard for who she really is.

"These are magnificent," Edelgard says finally as she returns to the page with Petra's unfinished sketch. "Bernadetta, you have a real gift." Edelgard turns to look directly at her. "Thank you, my friend, for sharing these with me."

Bernadetta just stares, open-mouthed and trying not to do something stupid, like pass out. Or kiss her. 

"Bernadetta?"

More staring.

"Did you faint while sitting up again?" Edelgard hesitates before gently laying her hand on Bernadetta's arm.

It’s this gentle physical contact that finally breaks Bernadetta out of her trance. "Sorry!," she squeaks, then rambles, "I just, wow! You're so pretty! And you don't have to- don't say things like that! And you're just so strong and beautiful and I would quite like to kiss you and I'm going to shut up now." Bernadetta pulls her arm out of Edelgard’s grip, face getting somehow even redder as she turns to the opposite wall.

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence in the greenhouse as Bernadetta tries desperately to slow her breathing. The longer the silence stretches on, the deeper the pit of embarrassment and shame wallows in her. 

Then, finally. 

“Bernadetta.”

Edelgard has said her name so many times that night - with resignation, with comfort, with friendly laughter. However, this time the emotions behind her words are unreadable.

Bernadetta chances a glance at her, but the soft smile on Edelgard’s face does nothing to help her anxiety. She buries her head in her hands.

“You’ve been holding onto these feelings for awhile now, I assume?”

Bernadetta nods.

“Please, my friend.” 

Bernadetta peeks over her fingers at Edelgard, and when Edelgard reaches forward slowly and takes her hands in hers, Bernadetta lets her. 

“Bernadetta, you are quite mistaken if you feel as though I will ‘smite you down’ for confessing such things to me.” 

“I didn’t-”

“Hush, now. Allow me to speak my piece.” Edelgard straightens her shoulders and gives Bernadetta’s hands a squeeze. “There’s much I need to say.” She takes a deep breath. Bernadetta feels trapped in her gaze. 

“I must confess that I return those feelings. As well as the desire to kiss you.” 

Oh, Goddess. Bernadetta really might faint. 

“However, if you are still afraid of me, and continue to run from me, I do not believe that we would make a good match. I know your fears, you know mine. I know you like plants, and you like embroidery, and cats and the way the sunlight glitters on the stained glass in the old Cathedral. I’m sure, without you even saying so, you know the same small things about me.

“So please, dear friend, can we work together? You help me with my anger. I help you with your fears. Together. That is, if you can talk to me without trying to run away. We can work on that, too.”

Bernadetta thinks she might have died and gone to Sothis. Or maybe the Never-Ending Darkness? Maybe somewhere in the middle. Yes, purgatory sounds about right and also very accurate.

“Um, I…” she trails off.  _ Come on brain, work. Come on brain, words are friends. Come on brain- _

“Bernadetta? Are you in there?”

“There’s just, a lot, of feelings,” Bernadetta forces out, each word punctuated by a breath.

“Understandably.” Edelgard juts her chin in the air, and it’s such an overly royal gesture that a spark of warmth pushes its way through the stone walls surrounding Bernadetta’s heart, and she’s able to relax, just a bit.

She’s still not able to speak, though. 

“How about this,” Edelgard smiles and pats Bernadetta’s hand with hers. “Sleep on it. I believe you’ve had a bit of a rough night. Maybe we can talk tomorrow? After the strategy meeting?"

“Okay,” Bernadetta chokes out. 

Edelgard’s smile widens. “Right, then. I look forward to it.” She opens her mouth to speak again, and then shuts it. Her brow furrows. 

Bernie thinks it’s kind of nice to see Edelgard get nervous, too. 

But when Edelgard leans in and brushes a soft kiss against her cheek, Bernie has no thoughts at all. 

When Edelgard pulls away, Bernie notes the pink blush rising on her cheeks. “Goodnight, Bernie.” 

“Goodnight!” she blurts, and when Edelgard chuckles, releasing her hands and turning away, Bernadetta immediately claps her hands over her face again, not moving for quite some time.

* * *

The next morning, Bernadetta wonders if she dreamt it. The greenhouse. Edelgard. All of it. 

But when she steps out of her room, the same room she’s slept in for the last six years, and sees a pitcher plant on her doorstep with a crimson red ribbon tied around the pot it's sitting in, her heart pounds with the knowledge that it wasn’t. 

There’s a note attached to the ribbon. Bernadetta pulls it off with shaking hands, returning into her room to set the plant on her desk. 

_ “Thank you for last night. - El.” _

El. 

Bernadetta thinks she might be able to get used to calling her that. 

**Author's Note:**

> does hell even exist in fódlan lore? I have no idea.   
> stan bernegard and come talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/bizzybee429) and [tumblr](https://officialferdinand.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
